


The Menehune Affair

by spikesgirl58



Series: The Addams Affairs [3]
Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With THRUSH hidden in the swamps of Kauai and hot on the trail of aTHRUSH baddie to end all baddies, Napoleon and Illya enlist the help of a very special family - the Addams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Menehune Affair

**Author's Note:**

> I have to take a moment and thank Queena Foster for her clean up of this. She really worked very hard to give this old tale a fresh new look on life! Thank you so much!

 

Long ago, long before the Polynesians came to the islands of Hawai'i, another people lived here among the lush vegetation in the jungles of Kaua'i.  They came from the Island of Mu and settled down quickly, building great cities and engineering tremendous feats.  They were an intelligent, but physically short race, with ugly, red faces and big eyes nearly hidden by their long, bushy eyebrows.  They loved nothing more than to laugh and make merry…at least until the day the first twin-hulled Polynesian canoes touched the sandy shores of Poipu.

 

Alarmed, the King ordered his people into the jungle to hide from the strangers.  He feared that breeding with these newcomers would weaken his race or possibly even destroy them entirely.  So they hid by day and came out at night, gradually getting used to the people who would one day come to be called the true Hawaiians.  In time, they even started to perform their engineering tricks again for various kings and queens that met with their favor.  They created a ditch, a waterway that still continues to baffle scientists, and a fishpond that legend has was built in one night by a twenty-five mile string of these tiny people, each passing rocks to the next one in line.

 

They were the Menehunes ‑ the true people of Kaua'i.

 

                                                                                ****

 

Bobby Adler paddled his royak, a sort of combination kayak and canoe, up the brackish water of the Huieia Stream towards the Menehune fishpond.  The tall Hoary Head mountain range flanked his left side and he could see the outline of what legend said was a prince and his sister. Unable to contain their curiosity, they had spied on the Menehunes as they were hard at work on the fishpond.  When the tiny people found out, they were furious and immediately stopped work on the pond, leaving a gap at the farthest end that the Hawaiians themselves had to finish.  Not only that, the Menehunes unleashed their wrath upon the prince and princess and turned them into stone, forever cursed to sit and watch the fishpond whose creation lead to their downfall.

 

Bobby knew it was just a story, but if he looked just right, he could see two stone heads, the shorter appearing to rest itself against the shoulder of the other.  If he used a bit of imagination, he could even see the head lei on the taller figure.   Bobby shook his head, amazed as always at the mystery and superstition that surrounded Kaua'i more than the other islands.  Perhaps it was due to its age or the lush growth that clung to the edges of the needle-shaped mountain ranges and hid so much of the island—and some said the Menehunes—from view.  Yet it wasn't the mystery, the romance, or the beauty of Kaua'i that brought Bobby Adler here.  He was an assassin, and he was here to do a job.

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Napoleon Solo stood on the balcony of his hotel room and looked down on the open air Polynesian Market.  Merchants from all over the islands came here to haggle, to sell their goods to the tourists, and to socialize.  A huge banyan tree covered the entire market, sheltering it from the tropical sun, and affording partial protection from the rains.  It was one way that the Hawaiian tourist could get away from the proliferation of souvenir shops with their over‑priced, imported pieces of plastic and buy a bit of actual Hawai'i.  Napoleon was sure that a majority of the 'local' items being hawked by the dealers were also imported, just as he was sure he knew why the local government was so determined to shut the market down.  It was sitting on prime, ocean‑front property in the crowded Waikiki downtown.  If they could close the market, another hotel could be built, and that was just what the city needed – another high rise hotel.

 

Napoleon shook his head and sipped the mai tai he'd brought up from the pool.  Greed was a powerful motivator.  It made normal people mad and addicted, it made nations crumble, and it gave Napoleon Solo, and men like him, a paycheck every two weeks.

 

The magpies in the banyan tree began their late afternoon chorus, and Napoleon glanced at his watch.  Illya should be back anytime and would probably be ravenous. Napoleon sipped his cocktail again and started to wonder about dinner.  That was one problem with a vacation like this:  he usually ended up putting on ten pounds.  The other problem was that his vacations didn't come around nearly often enough to suit Mr. Solo.

 

The hotel room door opened suddenly, and Napoleon instinctively went for his gun.  It seemed prudent since the person who came through the door could have easily made two of his slender, blond partner.

 

The man, a huge Samoan, grinned at the dark-haired agent and yanked something from behind his back.  "You lose this, mister?"  

 

Illya waved and smiled up at the big man before shaking himself free from the grip of their fellow agent, Keoni Smith.  "Look who I found roaming the halls, Napoleon," Illya said, indicating Smith.  "I have this nagging feeling that our blissful Hawaiian existence is about to have reality rudely thrust upon it."

 

Keoni followed the Russian into the room and shook his head. "This is so...so...so..."

 

"Touristy," Napoleon suggested, abandoning the balcony.

 

"I was going for tacky, but that will work too," Keoni admitted, lowering his frame onto the corner of a twin bed which squeaked a protest.  "Lived here all my life, and I think this is the first time I've been in a Waikiki hotel room…or any hotel room, for that matter."

 

"I got news for you," Illya admitted, popping the top to a bottle of soda.  "Change a couple of pieces here and there, and this room could pass for just about any room I've ever stayed in."

 

"Except for possibly that cave in Athens," Napoleon reminded him.  "And the Turkish prison."

 

"How could I forget that prison?" Illya said, flopping back on a second twin bed.  "Be glad you don't travel, Keoni. I'm sure your fiancée is."

 

Keoni snapped his fingers, a sound that rivaled the breaking of a tree branch.  "That reminds me of why I'm here.  Kilia has invited you two globetrotters to dinner this evening.  She even sent me to make sure you are on time and in the right place."

 

"Sounds great," Napoleon admitted with a gracious smile. "I can't tell you how long it's been since I've had a home cooked meal."

 

"I can," Illya interrupted.  "The last time we were with your parents in Vermont."  He sat up and placed a friendly hand on Keoni's forearm.  "His mother makes the best cinnamon rolls in the world.   If he ever invites you there, snap it up in a heartbeat."

 

"I'll tell her you said that.  Keoni, will we be the only ones at dinner this evening?"

 

"Actually Mr. Nahola and his wife will be there, too." Keoni's dark face was perplexed.  "How did you know?"

 

"That's why they pay us the big bucks," Illya said with a chuckle as he rolled off the bed and towards the bathroom. "I take it dress is informal?"

 

"On Hawai'i, everything is informal."

 

"Must be difficult on the formal evening wear business." Napoleon began to unbutton his shirt.

 

"But so much easier on the neckline," Keoni said, rubbing a hand around his throat.  "You know what they say about the tie that binds."

 

"I have an entire closet full," Illya called from the bathroom.  "Would you care for a few?"

 

"No thanks, I suffer enough with two I have."  Keoni stood and looked around again.  "I'll be waiting for you in the lobby.  I think I've had enough of this room for awhile."

 

****

               

Napoleon shifted a little uncomfortably and then smiled over at his hostess who was looking concerned.

 

 "Are you all right, Mr. Solo?"  The woman's voice was melodic, and Napoleon knew he could listen to that kind of a voice all night.

 

"Old war injury," he admitted, trying to look modest.

 

"From the battle of the sexes," Illya added softly, padding the comment with a smile. "The pork is exceptionally good, Kilia, how was it cooked?"

 

"In an imu pit, of course," Kilia said, passing the tray to the Russian.  "A hole is dug and lined with lava rocks.  More rocks are heated and placed in and around your pig.  Then banana leaves are piled on top of those, and the pig is allowed to cook for several hours.  I—" she paused and smiled at Keoni, " _We_ try to keep the old ways alive for us and our children's future."

 

"Good," Liwai Nahola nodded his approval to the couple before popping a piece of cooked banana in his mouth.  "We need more couples like you."

 

"Mr. Nahola, when we were getting ready to leave for home, you said that we were instead headed for Kaua'i, only to be held on standby.”  Napoleon said while the Hawaiian Number Two, Section One chewed his mouthful.   “We've been here for three days, and while I, and I'm sure Mr. Kuryakin, both enjoyed the break, I am getting increasingly curious as to why we are here and not there or even back in New York."

 

"A good question and I thank you for asking it."  The older man reached over and patted his wife's hand.  "My wife said she'd tie me out with the goat tonight if I tried to talk business, but I can't very well refuse to answer a question, can I?"

 

Since the woman made five of the diminutive Number One, Napoleon imagined her threat could be easily executed.  By the same token, he didn't want the woman annoyed with him either.

 

"If you would prefer another time," he tried gallantly, but Nahola quieted him with a hand.

 

"It's all right, Mr. Solo, the goat and I are old friends." He reached for more fruit and considered his next words. "Are either of you knowledgeable about the Waialeale Swamp?"

 

Illya sucked some poi off his fingers and thought for a moment.  "It’s considered the wettest place on Earth.   It's located on the highest peak of the Waialeale mountain range. If I’m not mistaken, it gets something like four hundred inches of rain a year."

 

"Mr. Kuryakin, you never cease to amaze me.”

 

“You get used to him after awhile,” Napoleon said, chuckling at their superior’s amazed look.

 

"Waialeale, by the way," Keoni interrupted, "means, 'Ai, what a lot of water!'"

 

"Hawaiian kings are buried in the various crags and crevices of the range.  It is a very sacred, very superstitious place for us," Nahola said and then fell silent.

 

"That can't be the problem though," Napoleon pointed out. "I'm sure you have men that would go."

 

"Yes, I have men that will ignore the old legends and put their superstition behind them, but I do not have any men who can handle the weather."

 

"Beg pardon?"

 

"All it does is rain up there," Keoni supplied the answer. "When it isn't raining, which is practically never, the ground is so waterlogged that you can barely walk on it. It's always cloudy, and it's easy to get lost up there. Too many men have gone up and not come down.  Superstition is one thing, but reality is quite another."

 

"We have reason to believe that there is a THRUSH outpost being operated by a man we call the Red Lion.  Big Irish chap with a long, red beard.  How they managed to get anything built up there is beyond us, and what they're doing is an even bigger question."

 

"I think it would be safe to assume that it's not meteorological research, although they were working with acid rain not too long ago."

 

"Another fear of ours.  We are stymied as to how to proceed from here."  Nahola seemed almost embarrassed by his admission.

 

Napoleon's eyes lit up suddenly as he snapped his fingers.  He glanced over at his partner who was grinning and looking very smug indeed.

 

"Mr. Nahola, what would you say if I told you I have an agent that would not only be able to infiltrate the swamp, but would have a wonderful time doing it?  And would relish the weather?"

 

"I'd say you were out of your mind.  What would you say?" Nahola looked from one man to the other before both chorused.

 

"Uncle Fester!"

 

                                                                                ****

 

 

Morticia Addams looked up at the sound of a whooping horn blast.  Ah, the mail was here, and it was just what she needed to divert her attention from the depressing task at hand.  The roses had such a large profusion of blossoms this year that she was beginning to doubt her own black thumb. With a practiced hand, she snipped off two more of the objectionable blooms and watched as they fell to the floor. There, that was better.  The entire bush was denuded of flowers, and there was always the chance that the aphids might still come back.

 

A box not far from her elbow opened, and a hand appeared, holding a cluster of envelopes.

 

"Thank you, Thing," Morticia said, smiling at the servant. She didn't know what she'd do without him. 

 

The mail wasn't terribly interesting today, although there was a notice from the gas company that a leak was suspected in their area and there was the danger of an explosion ‑ Gomez would be pleased to hear that.  In fact, he might even go looking for it.  Sometimes, she envied Gomez his freedom as a man.  She was stuck here with the house and the children, but he was free to pursue any fancy that he might desire, from mold collecting to stealing 'Bridge Closed' signs. 

 

She sighed and continued to shuffle through the various envelopes. There was a request for funds from the Homeless Thuggies of India, a notice that the Annual Meeting of the Society for Fungus had been delayed a week due to good weather, and something for Uncle Fester.

 

She tossed the mail onto a table and sighed as she lowered herself gracefully into a high back rattan chair.

 

"Did I hear the mail, _Cara_?" Gomez asked as he climbed from a panel that slid open.  Immediately, he noticed her despondency and was at her side, clutching at her hand.

 

"What is it, _Cara mia_?"  He kissed the back of her hand tenderly and smiled.

 

"Oh, nothing," was the unconvincing answer.

 

"Tish, the last time I saw you this unhappy was when you were preg...Tish!  You're not?!"

 

Morticia smiled and brought a hand up to caress his sallow cheek.  "No, _mon cher_ , I'm not."

 

Fire blazed in the man's eyes, and he began to kiss his way up her arm.  "Tish, you spoke French.  More, more, anything, Eiffel Tower, Crepes Suzette, anything."

 

"Not now, dear," Morticia extracted herself from his grasp and leaned back into her chair.

 

"Something is bothering you, _Cara_.  What is it?"  Gomez did his best to regain his composure.

 

"Oh, I don't know.  It's just that the weather's been so...so...nice lately."

 

"That is enough to depress anyone," Gomez agreed as he pulled a lit panatela from a jacket pocket and puffed away on it.  "But what's a fellow to do?  Even the weathermen have to be right occasionally."

 

That brought a smile to Morticia's lips.  "You always know the right words to cheer me up, Gomez.  How selfish I was to be thinking of myself."

 

The tremendous clanging of the doorbell rang through the house, shaking dust from the mounted swordfish that held the last remnants of Uncle Lucius in his mouth. Morticia frowned, wondering as she had many times before, what it was going to take to keep that dust up there.

 

"Were you expecting anyone, Tish?" Gomez asked, puffing away at the cigar.

 

"No, I think not."  Her brow furrowed as she thought.  The caller knocked a second time, and Lurch moved smoothly towards the door.  After a moment of brief conversation, the butler pulled back from the doorway and stood at the stairs to the living room.

 

"Alexander Waverly from UNCLE," he intoned in a deep baritone. 

 

The elderly gentleman appeared at his elbow and surveyed the room with a curious eye.  He was startled when Lurch reached for his hat but permitted the huge, looming servant to take the fedora.  He'd been warned by both Solo and Kuryakin as to the family's eccentricities, but he thought his agents had been exaggerating.  Apparently, they had not.  The room was every bit as peculiar as Mr. Solo said it would be.

 

"Mr. Waverly!"  Gomez immediately recognized the name and strode up to the man, his hand extended.  "How the deuce are you, old boy?  What brings you out to this neck of the woods?"

 

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Addams.  I was hoping that perhaps my letter would precede me in this matter."  Waverly refused to allow his surroundings to get the better of him. After all, these were just normal people, weren't they?

 

"Letter?"  Gomez looked confused.  "We didn't receive any letter from you."

 

Then a hand popped out of a highly polished, wooden box and snapped its fingers, pointing to an envelope that lay on the end table.

 

"Thank you, Thing," Morticia said, smiling graciously as she gestured him to a dusty sofa.  "Is this your letter, Mr. Waverly?"

 

"Yes, we were hoping to press...Uncle Fester into service once again," Waverly said as he cautiously sat, trying his best to ignore the puffs of dust that resulted.

 

"Excellent!"  Gomez was animated.  "The old man will be positively delighted."

 

"Gomez, my beloved," Morticia interrupted. "Shouldn't we ask Uncle Fester first?  After all, the slugs are due to return to the swamp this week."

 

"You're right, Tish," Gomez relented, and he walked over to a faded, knotted noose hanging from the ceiling.  He yanked it, and a loud gong sounded. Almost immediately, Lurch appeared as if from the woodwork, and Waverly was startled as to just how he did that.

 

"You rang?"

 

"Yes, Lurch, go get Uncle Fester for us, will you?  Tell him he has a visitor and have Grandmamma put the kettle on."

 

Lurch rumbled an affirmative response and slowly moved away. Gomez watched him leave with a fond expression.  "Don't find servants like that every day."  Waverly had to agree with that.

 

They spent the next few moments making small talk while Waverly grew more and more curious to meet Uncle Fester.  There was a sudden movement that caught Waverly's attention, and a rotund, bald man dressed in a monk's ulster slid down a fire pole.  Upon landing, he tucked his hands into the sleeves and walked jauntily over to Morticia and Gomez.

 

"Lurch said you wanted to see me?"

 

"Yes, Fester, old man, meet Mr. Waverly from UNCLE."

 

"Mr. Waverly?"  The smooth, pasty-white face crinkled up with joy.  "Oh boy!  Do you have an assignment for me, sir?" Somehow, he managed to keep from saluting.

 

"A small task that Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin thought you alone would be qualified for," Waverly explained, reaching into his pocket for his pipe.  He had a feeling this was going to be a long afternoon.

 

"I remember Solo and Kuryakin," Gomez said, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets.  “Good men, old chap.”

 

"Ah yes, Mr. Solo was the skittish one," Morticia murmured, stroking her long black hair thoughtfully.

 

"Especially after meeting your sister.  She had a way of making most men nervous," Gomez added as Thing popped out of its box to offer a light to Waverly.  Slightly taken aback, Waverly hesitated and then leaned forward, drawing on his pipe until he was satisfied with the resulting puffs.

 

For his part, Fester bounced back and forth on his toes in anxious anticipation.  "You have a job for me?  Oh, goodie."

 

"It would involve a long trip to a dreary, isolated spot," Waverly tried to paint as bleak a picture as possible, but the man seemed only more excited.

 

"I could use a vacation," Fester said happily.

 

"How about the rest of the family?"  Waverly managed not to stare as a white-haired, elderly woman appeared at his elbow.  "We'd...we'd like to extend the invitation to your entire family.  It was Mr. Solo's idea."

 

"He's always so considerate, just like his namesake," Morticia said, smiling over at the elderly man. Then she turned to her husband.  "Darling, do you remember that time in France, when Bonaparte delayed his battle for an entire day for us?"

 

"Just so we could collect that mold."  Gomez nodded, his eyes fixed on a distant spot.  "Salt of the earth, Boney was. Shame about Waterloo though, the man never could think things through."  Gomez's attention returned to the living room and Waverly.  "Tell you what, old man, why don't you join us for lunch, and we can discuss the details?"

 

"Lunch?"  Waverly looked uncertain as to what that might entail.

 

"Grandmamma… " Morticia indicated the old lady who gave Waverly a toothy grin "… has created the most exciting stew using just regular, every day ingredients that any cook might have laying about her kitchen.

 

"Really?"  It didn't sound too dangerous.

 

"I called it 'Grandmamma's Midnight Revenge'," the old lady said proudly.

 

"Why do you call it that?"

 

"Cause it's usually midnight before the first stomach pains hit," Gomez muttered, stuffing his still lit cigar into a coat pocket.  "Of course, that's only if the vulture meat isn't fresh."

 

               

                                                                                                ****

 

 

Bobby Adler huddled beneath his poncho and shielded his eyes.  It was just like the Red Lion to take up residence in a godforsaken place like this.  Worse than the weather was the fact that Bobby wasn't even sure his target was here.  He'd been in place nearly a week and hadn't yet caught a glimpse of the man he'd been hired to assassinate. Still, there was no cause to doubt his employer's word, and he'd been holed up in worse places for longer amounts of time.  No, it would take more than just this depressing rain to keep him from fulfilling his contract.

 

Movement caught his attention, and the gum Bobby had been chewing fell out of his mouth into a moss-lined puddle. From out of the mist, he could make out the shape of a vehicle.  Even worse, he determined it was a hearse. How did a car get into the Waialeale Swamp?  It was 13,680 feet straight up with no roads.

 

Bobby watched as the hearse pulled to a stop, and people began to climb from the vehicle:  a giant of a man, a reed-slim woman in black, two children, an old woman, and two more men, one in a business suit, smoking a cigar of some sort, and the other wearing a trench coat over a monk's robe and carrying a magnifying glass.  This was getting too strange for words.

 

Bobby glanced down at his watch, feeling reassured by the steadily moving second hand.  He could feel the rain against his face and water seeping into his boots, so this must be real.  He glanced up, but the car and its occupants were still there.  Somehow, reality was taking a turn for the worse.

 

                                                                                                ***

 

 

Napoleon Solo leaned back in the lounge chair, feeling the plastic webbing cut into his bare back.  One thing was certain:  he would be going back to New York with one of his more impressive tans...providing Illya didn't take off his shirt.

 

Probably his Ukrainian blood, Napoleon thought as he watched Illya dive effortlessly into the pool, seemingly unaware of the dozen inviting looks being cast his way by various female onlookers.

 

Napoleon watched Illya swim and then began to study the distant Waialeale Mountains.  He had no idea where the swamp was actually located, hidden somewhere among the clouds that seemed to be a permanent part of the mountain range.

 

"Think they're up there yet?"  Illya asked quietly as he sank into a chair beside his partner and began to towel off his hair. 

 

Napoleon moved his mai tai out of harm's way and shrugged his shoulders.  "Should be, if all our estimates are correct, although how they're getting up there is beyond me."

 

"Ours is not to reason why…or how," Illya trailed off as a woman wearing a skimpy pareu and a Sheraton Princeville name tag approached.

 

"Mr. Solo?" she asked the Russian who merely shook his head and returned to his toweling. 

 

She looked disappointed, and Napoleon judged it was time to step in.  "I'm Napoleon Solo," he said with a smile that had never yet failed him.

 

The woman smiled back, her white teeth a contrast against her tan.  "There's a phone call for you at the bar.  A Double Secret Agent Fester, I believe he said."

 

"That's Uncle Fester for you," Napoleon chuckled as he rose, picked up his drink, and followed the woman to the bar.  The man behind the counter looked too busy to overhear, so Napoleon lifted the phone and spoke carefully into it. "Uncle Fester?"

 

"Mr. Solo," came a familiar, if slightly distorted voice. "I just wanted to check in with you at 0900 hours."

 

Napoleon glanced down at his watch and smiled.  "You're still on East Coast time, Uncle, it's 1500 hours here."

 

"Oh...well, never mind, we're here.  You were holding out on us."

 

"I was?"  Napoleon signaled the bartender for another mai tai.

 

"You didn't tell us the weather would be so beautiful up here."

 

_Beautiful?_   Solo wondered how anyone could consider 486 inches of rain a year beautiful weather, but that was the Addams Family for you.  "I wanted to keep that as an extra surprise.  Have you located the spot yet?"

 

"No, but we're about to start looking.  When will you and Illya be joining us?"

 

Never, if their luck held out, otherwise, "In two days, Uncle, after you've had a chance to settle in and get the lay of the land."  The bartender set the drink in front of him, and Napoleon signed the tab with a practiced hand.  "Take care of yourself, Uncle, and thanks for the call."

 

He replaced the receiver and made his way back to Kuryakin who had stretched out on Solo's abandoned lounge, oblivious to the havoc he was wreaking on the women around the pool.

 

With a disgruntled expression, Napoleon settled into the chair and considered dumping his drink on Kuryakin's trim stomach.

 

"Don't even think about it, Napoleon," was the soft, but threatening advice, the blue eyes unreadable behind the dark sunglasses.

 

"What?"  Napoleon was the picture of innocence.

 

"Pouring your drink on me.  I've been your partner too long to not know how your evil mind works."  Illya propped himself up on his elbows and squinted over at his partner.  "I take it that they arrived safely and are setting up shop."

 

"And God help the THRUSH who gets in their way.  The next thing he knows, he'll be sitting down to a big bowl of Grandmamma's fungus soup."

 

"It's not that bad, Napoleon.  A gourmet like yourself should know not to condemn something before he's tried it."

 

"I'll pass this time.  Have you managed to locate a pilot for us?"

 

"A local guy named Larry something.  He's willing to go for a price if weather permits."

 

"And if it doesn't?"

 

"Then his price is doubled, and we parachute in."

 

"Sounds like your kind of guy," Napoleon observed as he popped a piece of pineapple into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.  "You do realize we might go into this and not find anything?"

 

"Or we could come back with the Red Lion's head as a trophy.  Have you ever heard of this guy?"

 

"No, but if Mr. Nahola has, that's good enough for me. There are lots of things and people I've never heard of.  Number Ones have to be good for something."

 

"Agreed," Illya said, leaning back and rubbing a hand over his stomach.  "I just wish..." he trailed off.

 

"What?"

 

"Nothing," Illya said with a smile, and he looked up at the mountains and shook his head.  "Nothing."

 

Solo regarded his partner silently for a long time before returning his attention to the numerous, bikini-clad bodies that lingered around the pool.   "Listen, if it's eating you," he finally ventured, "why don't you put in a call home and find out?"

 

"I already did.  Janice promised she'd call when she found something.  That was four hours ago."

 

It was obviously bothering Kuryakin, so Napoleon sat up and reached for his towel.  "I think I'll go up and make a couple of calls.  Try not to get sunburned."

 

The Russian nodded, seemingly uninterested, and Napoleon walked away while Illya watched him over the rim of his sunglasses.  One thing Napoleon was good at was cutting through red tape especially over the phone.  He could quite often accomplish more with polished words than Illya could with threats.  If there was anything available on or about the Red Lion, Illya was confident that Napoleon would uncover it.  With that thought in mind, he lay back in the chair and dozed off.

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Morticia Addams leaned over the cauldron and inhaled deeply.  It was a marvel how the great outdoors always increased her appetite.

 

"Grandmamma, you are a true genius when it comes to cooking," Morticia smiled over at her mother-in-law, and the old woman grinned back.

 

"It's not hard when you have so many fresh ingredients at hand," Grandmamma was modest.  She smoothed her straggly, white hair down with a gnarled hand and returned to stirring her broth.

 

Morticia nodded in agreement and returned to the rattan chair that Lurch had so thoughtfully set up for her.  From there, she could survey her little kingdom, relishing the misty, gray fog that draped over the entire area of the Waialeale Swamp.  What a delightful spot this was, much better than some of those other tourist spots on the Islands of Hawai'i. Why, the mere thought of Kaanapali Beach with its sun and sand made her shiver in terror.

 

Thank goodness Gomez and Fester were leading the children in much more healthy activities.  Gomez was currently helping Wednesday build a nice mud and fungus castle, while Fester, with Pugsley's help, was chasing the big black bumblebees that Hawai'i was famous for.  Grandmamma had a wonderful recipe for deep-fried bees that made Morticia's mouth water at the mere thought.  There she was, thinking about food again.  The last time she'd thought of food this much was when she was pregnant with Wednesday...  With a sharp intake of breath, Morticia began to wonder.

 

                                                                                                                ***

 

Likewise, Bobby Adler was wondering exactly what sort of people these were…or if they were people at all.  Except in the vaguest sense, the argument could swing against them.  Since twilight, he'd watched them frolic as if they were on the beach at Poipu. They had hung paper lanterns that lit the area with a weak yellow light.  One man had even spread out a blanket amid the moss and was basking beneath the sky, apparently relishing whatever moonlight filtered through the clouds that hung over the swamp.

 

This was almost too much, so Bobby decided they must be actors of some sort—actors whose sole purpose was to keep him or anyone else away from the Red Lion.  It wasn't going to work; Bobby was too much of a professional for that. He'd been hired to put a bullet between those green eyes, and he intended to do just that.

 

Unwillingly, he tore himself from the spectacle and began to slog his way through the saturated trees and ground towards the THRUSH hideout.  Eventually, his target would have to come out, and Bobby would be waiting for him.

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Napoleon Solo glanced up and wasn't surprised to see his partner coming through the orchid-filled dining room.  He moved effortlessly with an ease that was born of training, not natural grace.  Between that and the tan he was cultivating, Napoleon recognized Illya as a serious threat to his own womanizing.  Thankfully, the Russian didn't seem to notice.

 

"Hello, Napoleon, did you have a good afternoon?"  Illya slid into the low backed, rattan chair and picked up a menu.  He flipped to the fresh fish special and began to frown at the print.

 

"Very enlightening," Napoleon said, leaning forward to retrieve his drink.  "First off, there is indeed a Red Lion, and our Mr. Nahola has a very good reason for wanting him." He broke off as the waiter approached.

 

"Good evening, gentlemen, what may I get you?"

 

Napoleon nodded to Illya, and the Russian sat up a little straighter.

 

"The Opakapaka please, broiled, the salad with papaya seed dressing, and I think the Manu Chix for an appetizer."

 

"Very good, sir, and to drink?"

 

"Vodka, straight up, please."

 

"Excellent, and you, sir?"  The waiter turned his attention to Solo.

 

"All right, how about Ahi with the macadamia nut butter, the cold cucumber soup, and Chicken Kumaki."

 

"I couldn't have chosen better myself, sir, and will you be staying with your drink?"

 

Napoleon glanced down at the mai tai and nodded.  "I think so.  Thank you."  He handed the menus to the waiter who continued to write.

 

"Thank you."

 

Napoleon watched the man walk away and then turned his attention back to his partner who was idly toying with the condensation on his water glass.

 

"So, you were going to tell me about our Mr. Nahola."

 

"The Red Lion killed his partner about twenty years ago. Shot up Mr. Nahola pretty bad too—at least bad enough to permanently take him out of the field.  He's been the expert on the man since, and he doesn't want to share him with anyone else."

 

"I can appreciate that," Illya said, reaching for the bread basket and selecting a piece of lahvosh.  He broke off a small piece and studied it for a moment before putting it into his mouth.  He chewed slowly, watching the waves on the nearby beach.  "Now he wants the Red Lion."

 

"Exactly, and he's calling in all his favors to get him. Favors which include us, I suppose.  Otherwise, we'd being winging our way back home now."

 

"I could think of worse things."  Illya broke off as his drink arrived.  "Thank you," he murmured as the waiter left.  He flicked his gaze up to meet his partner's, and Napoleon knew the courtesy was directed towards him.

 

"You're very welcome," Napoleon said, holding his glass up in a salute.  Then he sat back, surprised as a different waiter placed a martini in front of him.  "I'm sorry, there must be some mistake."

 

"No mistake, sir, it's from that table over there."  A hand directed his attention, and Napoleon glanced over his shoulder to smile at the redhead who was smiling back.

 

"Would you excuse me for a moment, old man?" Napoleon asked, rising and setting his napkin down beside his plate.

 

"Far be it from me to interrupt a master at work.  Just try not to wake me when and if you come in tonight."  Illya was careful to keep the smile from his lips as Solo nodded and walked away.  Unlike Napoleon who mixed pleasure with everything, Illya preferred to keep his own well away from anything that smacked of business.  There would be plenty of time for that after they rounded up the Red Lion and delivered him to Nahola.  Until then, he would concentrate on more basic pleasures in life…like eating.

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Gomez Addams smacked his lips in delight.  "Grandmamma, that was the very best fungus and snail soufflé I have ever tasted.  You are a true genius when it comes to cooking in a cauldron."

 

"I've had years of experience, son," she acknowledged, then continued, "Ever since that strange Shakespeare boy visited me and my sisters.  And those little fellas that hide in the bushes seem to like it as well."

 

“Little fellas?”

 

“The menehune, Gomez,” Morticia explained patiently.  “They are very shy, but very helpful.”  She swore one of them winked at her from his hiding place.

 

Gomez rose to kiss his mother on the forehead.  "I shall forever have a soft spot for Scotland because of it."  He resettled himself and looked over at the trench coated Fester.  "And what are your plans for this evening, Fester?"

 

"I have to check in with Illya and Napoleon at 4700 hours."

 

"When exactly is that?"  Morticia brushed back a strand of hair, her eyes regarding the bald man fondly.  Dear, dear Uncle Fester...

 

"I think it's two o'clock tomorrow morning, but I'm not sure...Mickey doesn't go that high..."

 

Lurch shook his head and moaned as he cleared the dishes from the table.  At least finding dish water wasn't a problem here, although it wasn't half as dirty as he liked. No matter, he'd just wring some from a tree or two.

 

"Lurch is right, old man," Gomez responded, pulling a lit panatela from a pocket. "Perhaps you should give them a call now, just in case."  He began to draw on the cigar.

 

"Good idea, nephew," Fester agreed, ready and willing to play with one of his new gadgets.

 

"What about you, my love?" Morticia asked, rising to help Grandmamma serve dessert.

 

"I think I'll set up my trains and give them a whirl. There's nothing like a good train crash in a swamp to get the blood pumping."

 

Morticia nodded knowingly.  Gomez always knew the best way to make the most out of any situation, and the children would sleep so much better if reassured by the sound of tearing metal.  She caressed Gomez's face fondly and smiled.  "You are such a good father, Gomez, so _comme un enfant_."

 

"Tish, that's French!"  Gomez's trains, even his deep-fried black bumblebees were forgotten as his Spanish blood rose to the occasion.  He grabbed his wife's arm and began to kiss his way along it until Morticia's voice came, calmly, but firmly.

 

"The children, Gomez, and your trains."

 

"Oh, right."  He settled back down into his chair and took several deep breaths before returning his attention to his dessert. 

 

Fester, for his part, had finished and scooted his chair away from the long, mahogany table.  "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go make my call now, and then I'll take Kitty for a walk."

 

"You really are a dear, dear Uncle Fester," Morticia said. "Always thinking of others.  Run along, Uncle."

 

Delighted with the idea of playing spy, Fester gathered up his equipment and walked away.  There was a nice, little, stone hut he'd found that would be the perfect place to hide out.

 

                                                                                                ****

 

From his vantage point, Bobby Adler sucked lukewarm beans from his fingers and watched, just as he had been doing for two days now.  Whether these people were genuine or some sort of smoke screen thrown up by the Red Lion made no difference to him.  He did wonder how they managed to get so much stuff in that hearse and how they got it up here to begin with, but there were a lot of things he didn't understand.  Careful to avoid the sharp edges, he closed the lid to the can and wiped the ever present moisture from his face.

 

He rinsed his fingers in a puddle of water and decided to give up for the night.  If they followed the previous day’s pattern, these people weren't going to be bedding down any time soon.  He, on the other hand, needed a good night's sleep to keep his eyes sharp and his aim precise.

 

Bobby rose and stretched his back, keeping mindful not to bump any of the low hanging branches.  He gathered his trash and walked back to the waterproof tent he'd set up on the old, flat, stone heiau platform.  Several coins were stuck into various crevices, and Bobby leaned over to pick one up.  It was dated '1927,' and Bobby tucked the coin back into its nook.  No use stirring up all the various rain gods and elves that hid in the swamp.  One song made reference to 'four hundred thousand elves, the countless hosts of spirits, rank upon rank of woodland gods'; somehow, Bobby didn't feel quite up to doing that much battle tonight.

 

He climbed in the tent, glad to be out of the drizzle for a little while.  Just before dropping off, Bobby could have sworn he heard trains...

 

 

                                                                                                ****

 

 

Napoleon Solo squinted up at the gray sky and blew out a lungful of air while mopping his brow.  "And I thought it was humid in Princeville."

 

For his part, Illya Kuryakin was fighting a losing battle to keep water out of his hiking boots.  Of course, even if he'd won, his feet would have been the only thing dry.  The reports of 450+ inches of annual rain fall obviously weren't an exaggeration.  It hadn't stopped drizzling since the helicopter dropped them off.  But Illya had to admit that it must be the norm because he could hear birds singing and insects buzzing even now.

 

"And people actually lived up here?" Solo asked, a tone of awe creeping into his voice.

 

"I don't know that people lived here, but there are prayer platforms.  A good place to pay homage to the gods, but not the place for a tan," Illya murmured, reaching into a pocket for a waterproof map.  "Unless I miss my guess, the Addams' camp should be about a mile ahead in that direction. According to Fester's last report, he'd located the THRUSH hideout and was keeping it under surveillance."

 

"Which, in Fester's case, might mean just about anything."

 

"True, but at least there hasn't been any trouble this time."

 

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Fester Addams reached into the pocket of his ulster and felt the familiar shape of his communicator hidden among the numerous other things he kept tucked away.  The actual stakeout had been rather disappointing, and he was beginning to see what Illya meant when he said being a spy was 1% action and 99% boredom.  Of course, it probably would have been more exciting had he known what he was supposed to be staking out.  All he'd seen was a small cement shack with a bunch of jumpsuit-wearing guys walking in and out.  There was this one big man who reminded Fester of a redheaded Lurch, but that was it.

 

Fester sat back on a moss covered rock and felt the moisture soak through to his skin.  Oh, that was much better; in fact, he was enjoying the discomfort so much that he never even heard the two guards approaching him.

 

A blackjack arched down and smashed against Fester's bald head.  At the first stabs of pain, Fester grinned, then slowly his eyes rolled skyward as he collapsed face down in a puddle.

               

                                                                                                ****

 

Bobby Adler sat up suddenly as the guards knocked out the man he'd learned was Uncle Fester.  It seemed like an unnecessary show of violence on their part.  The older man didn't seem the dangerous sort; Bobby thought he was rather simple.  He kept talking into a pen, and if that didn't make you simple minded, nothing did.

 

This was also the break Bobby had been waiting for. Smoothly, fluidly, he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and fired.  The shot was more of a muffled 'pop' since he was using a tranquilizer gun instead of a regular rifle.  It made him seem more humane to his employers until they learned he used cyanide along with the tranquilizing drug. It made his hits very clean, very quiet, and very sure.  The guns also held up fairly well in a variety of conditions.

 

The first guard went down not far from the prostrate form of Uncle Fester.   The second assailant spun, and Bobby's next shot caught him in the chest.  The man's arms flailed for a moment, and then he slowly crumbled onto the soggy ground.

 

Only after waiting several long minutes did Bobby creep out from his hiding place to stand over the fallen bodies.  As he saw it, this was his chance to get inside that cement and steel box.

 

Quickly, he stripped the jumpsuit off of one fallen guard and struggled into it.  Both men were bigger than him, but hopefully the suit didn't look too baggy.  He tucked extra pant legs into his boots and rolled up the sleeves past his elbows.

 

That accomplished, he grappled with the still unconscious Fester, finally getting him to his shoulders in a fireman's carry.  He began to struggle towards the hideout, stopping every few feet to try and catch his breath.

 

                                                                                                ****

 

"I don't believe it," murmured Solo as he pushed aside a tangled mass of vines.  A hearse was parked in the break.  Nearby, a long, mahogany table with ornately carved chairs was sitting not far from a huge, bubbling cauldron.

 

"A home away from home," Illya said, squeezing water from his blond hair.  "Somehow, nothing the Addams Family does surprises me anymore.  Not since that..."  He broke off and looked around.  "I wonder where everyone is."

 

"Probably off collecting slugs or something."  Napoleon walked into the clearing and shouted, "Mr. Addams?  Mrs. Addams?  Fester?"  A hand went beneath the windbreaker he wore and came out holding a P‑38.  "This is odd, Illya.  I distinctly catch the scent of smelly little birds.  Did Fester mention the location of the THRUSH hideout?"

 

Illya studied the surrounding vegetation and then pointed. "That way.  He said it was about fifty yards outside of camp."

 

"How do you know which direction?"

 

"Said the tree reminded him of a girl he dated once."  Illya walked over and rested a hand on the branch of a twisted, stunted tree.  "This is the ugliest tree I see."

 

"That's cruel, Illya.  Probably true, but cruel nonetheless."  He gestured in the indicated direction.  "Shall we?"

 

"Might as well.  This party is definitely Dudsville."

 

"Dudsville," Napoleon winced as they started walking. "Where do you get these phrases?"

 

"You talk in your sleep," Illya said, a sly smile on his lips.  Despite the lightness of his bantering, the Russian was worried about the Addamses.  They were oddballs, totally eccentric, and probably just a little crazy, but they were also warm, affectionate people.  He felt a strong loyalty towards them, and it would be over his dead body that anything happened to any member of the family, especially Fester.

 

He was so preoccupied with the search that he was sprawling on the wet, moss-covered ground before he realized it. Napoleon was at his side, turning over the nearly naked body. 

 

Illya sat up, looking at what he'd tripped on.  "Dead?"

 

"As the proverbial door nail," Napoleon confirmed, abandoning the body to check out a second man nearby.  "And there's another one over here, but he's still dressed...Illya, he's THRUSH.  You don't think Fester...?"

 

"The man couldn't hurt a fly, much less kill two men." Illya examined the corpse.  "This one looks like he took something in his chest."  He ran a finger over the bruise and frowned.

 

Napoleon unzipped the front of the dead THRUSH's jumpsuit. "So did this guy.  I suspect Fester got too close, and they came out to grab him."

 

"So why are they dead, and where is Fester?"

 

"I don't know, old friend."  Napoleon straightened and wiped the perspiration and rain from his face.  "But I suspect we'll find the answer inside that THRUSH outpost."

 

****

               

Fester woke up with a delightful throb in his head and an airy lightness in his limbs that was sheer pleasure.  He didn't know who had hit him and was slightly sad at the thought.  Now he'd never be able to thank him personally for such a wonderful experience.  Fester sat up and looked at his immediate surroundings.   It was dark, musty, and stuffy, rather reminding him of his bedroom at home.

 

He got to his feet and bumped his head on something suspiciously like a clothes rod.  Groping his way forward, he found a wall and began to search for a door knob.  He couldn't wait to see his nephew's expression when he told him about this adventure!

 

 

                                                                                                ***

 

Bobby Adler moved easily through the bunker.  It had been insanely simple to get in the building using the unconscious Fester as a ruse.  No one paid him the least bit of attention even when he took a wrong turn and ended up in the men's room instead of the cell block.  Rather than push his luck, Bobby stowed the man in a closet and began to hunt for his target.  It shouldn't be too hard, Bobby reasoned, especially since the man didn't have the faintest idea he was there.

 

He ran a hand through his close cropped hair and looked around.  Very few of the bunker's doors were marked, but the place wasn't that big.  It shouldn't take too long to locate which one hid the Red Lion.  Two men, arguing about something, turned the corner, and Bobby barely kept from impulsively drawing the gun he'd hidden in a pocket.  If they noticed, they didn't let on, but continued to talk, their voices getting louder and louder.

 

"It's not fair.  I've pulled night shift for three weeks now, just because the Old Man is afraid of the dark."

 

"Life isn't fair, we all know that.  You're scheduled, and you're working."

 

"Says who?"

 

Bobby reckoned it was time to step in before one could take a swipe at the other.  Casually, he tapped the closest on the shoulder, and the man spun to scowl at him.

 

"Who the hell gave you the right to sneak up on people?" The man stopped and stared at Bobby for a long moment.  "Who the hell are you period?  I've never seen you before."

 

"Just got in from the States.  My boss tells me that suffering builds character," Bobby answered easily, smiling and shrugging his shoulders.  "He should know; he's the biggest character I know of."

 

The other two laughed weakly, neither man looking terribly convinced.  Bobby decided it was time to put some distance between them and him.

 

"I'm sorry I bothered you, I was just looking for the Old Man's office."

 

"You are new here," admitted the first man.  "It's down this corridor and to the right.  What did you say your name was?"

 

Bobby grinned and pulled the gun.  "I didn't."  He fired twice.  At point blank range, he couldn't have missed, and the silencer kept the shots down to a soft cough, barely audible over the humming of the air conditioner.  The men slumped down to the floor, and Bobby stuffed the gun back into his pocket.  With a grunt, he heaved one man up into a sitting position and then leaned the second against him.  It wasn't very convincing, but it would have to do.  Bobby doubted there was enough room in the closet to hide these two as well as Fester. 

 

 

                                                                                                ****

 

"It's odd that the door isn't being guarded," Illya murmured as he slipped the lock to the bunker's main entrance.

 

"Maybe they figured there wasn't much sense in it up here. I mean, who would bother you in the middle of a swamp?"

 

Illya drew his P‑38 and grinned over at his partner, "Us."

 

"Good point," Napoleon agreed, looking around cautiously for any signs of ambush.  "This place is almost too quiet for a THRUSH outpost."  Convinced that all was clear, he entered the building and stood in the hallway.  "I guess we should go and find out if anyone is home."

 

It was beginning to look like perhaps there wasn't when they heard a shot behind a door, faint and muffled, but a shot nonetheless.  Guns ready, both men moved to either side of the door and waited.

 

"Let that be a lesson to you, my friend," came a voice from just inside.  "Don't mess with people you don't know."

 

The door opened, and a curly, dark-haired man exited. Although dressed as a THRUSH, Napoleon sensed immediately that it was a ruse.  Even worse, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that they weren't going to be taking the Red Lion back for trial.

 

The man was parallel with the door when he threw the first punch.  Whoever or whatever he was, he was fast.  His fist caught Illya square in the jaw, sending the agent spinning into the nearby wall.  Illya slumped to the floor, more dazed than hurt by the blow.

 

This gave Napoleon a chance to ready himself, and he decided to let his gun talk for him.

 

"All right, my friend, why don't you just hold up for a moment, and we'll play a game of 'Twenty Questions.'"

 

"I don't think so," Bobby Alder said, focusing his attention upon the weapon.  It could make a rather large hole in him if he wasn't careful, and he'd been taught by his parents to be very, very careful.

 

"It wasn't a suggestion," Napoleon said, smiling faintly. "Illya, are you okay?"

 

There was an affirmative mumble as the Russian regained his feet and supported himself against the wall.

 

"Excellent," Napoleon murmured, never letting his gaze waver, at least not until he heard a familiar voice behind him.

 

"Hi, guys, you'll never believe what happened to me!"

 

Fester Addams rushed up, delighted to see the pair of UNCLE agents.  That momentary distraction was all Bobby needed. He grabbed Solo's arm and flung him into the recovering Kuryakin and headed off in the opposite direction, but not before waving a good bye and thanks to Fester who stood there, unsure of his mistake.

 

"Get off me, Napoleon," Illya pushed the American away even as Solo was getting to his feet.  Napoleon glared at Fester and then took off after the stranger.

 

Fester walked over to Illya and offered his hand which the Russian took gratefully.  "Guess I blew it, huh?" Fester asked, disappointment and resignation creeping into his voice.

 

"A momentary set back, if you prefer.  It depends on whether or not Napoleon can catch the guy," Illya said, feeling a little sorry for the man.  Napoleon, properly annoyed, could really dress one down.  He shoved the thought aside and entered the room that the stranger had come from.

 

Sitting at a desk, his face still registering surprise, sat a tall man with flame red hair—nearly as red as the blood that oozed from a fatal chest wound.

 

"Who is that?" Fester whispered.

 

"You're not going to wake him," Illya pointed out as he approached the body.  "I'd say we found the Red Lion, unfortunately after our friend in the hall did."

 

A noise made Illya spin, gun aimed at the doorway. 

 

Napoleon appeared, panting.  "I lost him in the jungle.  The way he disappeared, I'd say he's been staking out the place for awhile."  He joined the pair and looked down upon the body.  "The Red Lion, huh?"

 

"I'd say that is an accurate summation.  At least Mr. Nahola will be sleeping easier tonight."  He patted Solo's shoulder and murmured, "Don't be too hard on him, Napoleon.  He didn't know."

 

Solo nodded, still catching his breath, and glanced over at the rotund, ulster-clad Addams.  "Illya, could you excuse us for a moment?"

 

"I'll go see if I can find anyone else… alive." Reluctantly, the Russian backed from the room and into the corridor.  A quick inspection of the rest of the bunker turned up two more corpses, bringing the total to five, and Illya would lay odds that the same man was responsible for each of them.  He must have been a paid assassin or a very annoyed THRUSH confederate.  When Illya judged it was safe, he headed back to the office and tapped on the door.

 

The door opened, and Solo exited with a beaming Fester following close behind.  Not exactly what Illya had expected, but that was fine with the Russian.

 

"What did you find?" Napoleon asked as they started back out of the building.

 

"Two more bodies back there.  Shot with the same gun, I suspect.  It looks like the four made up the entire guard contingent."

 

"They weren't expecting trouble," Napoleon said, a hand over his mouth as he thought.  "I would also say that the Red Lion..."

 

"Who?" Fester interrupted.

 

"Dead man back there," Napoleon explained, and then continued. "The Red Lion was either being kept here until the heat cooled off or as a disciplinary action."

 

"Nahola could have been making him too hot to handle," Illya suggested as they walked from the bunker out into the steamy afternoon air.  There was a sharp 'crack,' and both Solo and Kuryakin jumped for cover and aimed their guns at the source of the sound, leaving Fester standing and very much an inviting target.

 

"Fester, get down!" Solo ordered, but it was too late.

 

From behind a mass of gray, fungus coated trees appeared the familiar face of Gomez Addams, happily chewing on the tip of his panatela.

 

"Fester, old man, we wondered where you'd drifted off to. Missed a smashing picnic, but we saved a vulture drumstick for you," Gomez's voice boomed out even as his hands worked to resettle the pith helmet he wore.  "Dastardly things, these hats.  Now I know why they never made it in Paris."

 

Solo and Kuryakin appeared from their hiding places, and Gomez's smile grew wider.

 

"Capital, just capital, you boys made it!"

 

"Gomez, wait until you hear what happened," Fester gushed as he approached, his hands clasped together in excitement.  "I was nearly killed!"

 

"That is exciting," Gomez agreed as he gestured back towards the trees.  "Let's go back to camp, and you can tell us all about it over some of Grandmamma's nightshade and swamp water stew.  She made a double batch especially for our two distinguished guests."  He looked directly at the men from UNCLE.

 

Napoleon gave Illya an 'I want to go home' look, and the Russian merely shrugged his shoulders which didn't exactly inspire confidence in Solo.

 

"We'd like to, Mr. Addams," Napoleon said.  "But we have some cleanup to do and reports to make before we could even think about having dinner.  Duty, you know."

 

"I understand completely."  Gomez clapped a hand to Fester's back and shifted the panatela from one corner of his mouth to the other.  "Let's go, old man, we've got a lot of work ahead of us."

 

"Work?"  Fester was confused.

 

"If the guests don't come to the banquet, then the banquet will come to the guests."  He started to walk away and then looked back over his shoulder at a gaping Solo.  "We'll be back just as soon as possible."

 

"I can hardly wait," Solo replied, deadpan.  For his part, Illya had re‑entered the bunker, lest his fit of laughter arouse the uglier side of Solo's nature.

 

 

                                                                                                ****

 

 

 

Napoleon Solo leaned back and patted his stomach.  "You know, I think we're leaving just in time.  Another luau and they'd have to roll me back to New York."         

 

Mrs. Nahola laughed and pushed a platter of haupia closer to him.  "You have brought my husband the first peace he has known in years.  The least I can do is feed you until you can't move."

 

"Must be an old Hawaiian tradition," Napoleon said, reaching for a piece of the coconut dessert.

 

"Well, I'm an old Hawaiian," she admitted, rearranging her muu muu's skirt about her.

 

"Just where is your husband, Mrs. Nahola?"

 

"He had a phone call to make.  His time is UNCLE's time.  He should be right back."  She paused, looking concerned at a nearly empty pitcher.

 

"Is something wrong?" Illya asked, sitting up.

 

"I seem to have run out of mai tai."  She started to get up, but Illya placed a gently restraining hand on her arm.

 

"Let me.  You've already been up and down a dozen times tonight."

 

The Russian scrambled to his feet and picked up the pitcher. The truth be known, if he hadn't moved in the next few minutes, he would have drifted off to sleep.  Quietly, more born out of practice than the need for actual stealth, he entered the kitchen and walked over to the refrigerator.

 

Beyond the kitchen, he could see and hear Nahola talking to someone, someone who looked vaguely familiar to him. Illya nearly dropped the pitcher to the floor as he heard Nahola say, "You did a good job.  I believe you'll find more than enough in the envelope."

 

"It was a pleasure wiping that smug grin off his face, sir. Anytime you want more exterminating done, you give me a call."  The speaker, who Nahola had blocked from view, turned and walked away.

 

Quickly and quietly, Illya put the pitcher on the counter and hurried out the side door.  He caught up with the man just as he exited from the house and started down the sidewalk.

 

"Okay, mister, hold it," Illya demanded in a no-nonsense tone, and the man stopped in mid stride, slowly turning to face Illya.  The Russian also stopped when he saw the man's face.  It was deeply tanned, and the nose was peeling from recent sunburn.  The close cropped, dark hair of the assassin from the swamp also could not have passed for the near shoulder length, wavy hair of this man.

 

"What can I do for you, brah?”  He was wearing a dirty, stained shirt whose patch read 'Honolulu Pest Control'.

 

Illya studied the man for a moment and then offered an apologetic smile.  "Nothing, I thought you were someone else."

 

"You got some cockroaches you want killed like Mr. Nahola?"

 

Illya shook his head sheepishly.  "No, I'm afraid not. Thank you.  I'm sorry."

 

"Okay, whatever, man," the exterminator shrugged his shoulders and resumed his walk back to his truck.

 

****

 

From the corner of his eye, Bobby Adler watched the blond stand there for a moment more, still obviously torn between what he thought and what he saw.   He climbed into his truck and took out the envelope that Nahola had handed him.  He didn't bother to count it; that could be saved for the privacy of an airplane lavatory.  In all his years of doing business, only one man had shorted him, and that man hadn't lived long afterward.

 

Bobby ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could take the wig off, but knowing he still wasn't out of the woods.  If the man was indeed an UNCLE agent, it would behoove Bobby to exercise more than his usual care.  He still wasn't sure what had made him put a disguise on for this meeting. Maybe he was just getting paranoid in his old age.  Maybe he just knew that UNCLE was trouble.  Or maybe a menehune had whispered a warning in his ear.

 

 

 

               

               

 


End file.
